


Just One More Drink

by FandomNonsense



Series: Laughter Lines [5]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Deleted Scene, Drunk Singing, Drunk confessions, Explicit Language, F/M, Heavy Drinking, Heavy Language, Stag Party, brother bonding, cursing, foul mouthed newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomNonsense/pseuds/FandomNonsense
Summary: Newt had marched into battle with more exuberance and tenacity than when his brother came and plucked him from Tina’s room to drag him to the Stag Party. He’d survived war; he’d sooner fight an enemy than spend his evening in a crowded bar with people who were all but strangers to him.  It was all Newt could do not to wrangle himself free of Theseus’ grip and run back to Tina, hoping she didn’t loathe him for abandoning her.





	1. Necessary Evil

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the deleted Stag party scene from Be Our Guest! If you haven't read that, and have stumbled upon this, I suggest you check that story out first, but this, I suppose could be read without having read that first. That said, this is going up in three parts, part 2 being the bulk of everything. Part 2 will be up on Wednesday, and the last part will be posted on Friday.

Newt had marched into battle with more exuberance and tenacity than when his brother came and plucked him from Tina’s room to drag him to the Stag Party. He’d survived war; he’d sooner fight an enemy than spend his evening in a crowded bar with people who were all but strangers to him.  It was all Newt could do not to wrangle himself free of Theseus’ grip and run back to Tina, hoping she didn’t loathe him for abandoning her. Leaving her  struck a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach that ached; inviting her only to abandon her seemed somehow a much crueler act than it actually was. To go with his brother in place of staying with Tina, in Newt’s mind,was akin to letting one of his creatures fend for itself. There were so many other things he could think of doing; ways to pass the evening _with_ her rather than away from her. They weren’t even any particularly exciting things: talking, taking care of his creatures, or simply sitting together in silent company would be enough to captivate him. Four torturously long months had passed – bleak without her - and once more it seemed he would have to wait to share that spark of companionship.  The Stag party that Theseus so desired was nothing more than an excuse for his brother to drink, and for his friends to tell him how great he is. _“An age-old tradition,"_ he’d called it. Newt, however, saw the whole ordeal as an unfortunate necessary evil and not the social norm that it was. To him, the party was no more than a bothersome plot to keep him away from Tina a while longer.

  
As if having a plethora of family staying within earshot wasn’t bad enough, spending an evening surrounded by Theseus’ best mates and colleagues would surely do him in. That realization was rapidly becoming far more foreboding as he sulked down the hall, and an unsolicited groan – heavy with dread and annoyance – parted his pressed lips. Theseus unfortunately heard it.

  
“Oh, cheer up, Newt,” he urged, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. There was a buoyant hop in Theseus’ step, while Newt landed on the main floor of the estate with a dismal sounding _thud_. “If you’re worried about Miss Goldstein, I’m sure Mum and Lillian will see to it that she is entertained.” He was practically bursting with joy, and it made Newt want to hit him.

  
“That’s what I’m afraid of. You know how mother can be.” If Theseus’ comment was meant to allay some of his younger brother’s torment, the remark only managed to aggravate Newt all the more.

  
A peculiar smirk creased Theseus’ mouth, unfurling slow and knowing while his gray eyes glistened in the light of the chandelier hanging above them in the foyer. “She brought up the story about her water breaking in the Hippogriff paddock again, didn’t she?”

  
Newt felt the blood drain from his cheeks as he relived the entire conversation – verbatim – in his mind. “Why does she feel the need to tell everyone that?”

  
Theseus offered no response other than a cool sigh and the shake of his head. He patted Newt’s back as some form of derelict consolation, directing him towards the door. Newt let another sigh pass his lips to mark his defeat just before their mother danced around the corner with her arms spread wide. A deeper frown threatened to curl Newt’s mouth while surveying his mother’s movements, knowing exactly what she was wanting. Theseus realized as well it seemed, but his chipper mood did not allow for something as boorish as a frown. The brothers each braced themselves for Louise’s inevitable embrace as well as the kisses she placed on their cheeks.

  
“Oh me ‘andsome boys. All ready for a night out.” She smiled at them both. “’Ave fun, now, an’ don’ do nuthin’ I wouldn’ do.”

  
_Which, I fear, is very little._ Newt had to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

  
“Of course, Ma,” Theseus beamed, gracing her with a kiss to the cheek.

  
Louise was quiet for a moment, her ever-present, fun-loving smirk planted firmly on her wide lips. The moisture in her eyes made them twinkle unbelievably brighter and, for a second, she looked as though she may cry. “You lads run along and ‘ave a drink for me.” She gave them a playful wink and shepherded them out the door without another word.

  
They were barely outside long enough for Newt to make a mundane comment on the cooling weather when Theseus grabbed him by the sleeve of his blue coat and Disapparated with a   _pop_. The two reappeared with a corresponding crack at the rear of a dismal alley that reeked vaguely of rotten food and excrement. Another smell hung in the air, hidden under the more potent odor that Newt knew belonged to London, and it was not any more pleasant. Newt’s mood sank ever deeper into a pit of seething distaste as the deplorable stench caused his nose to wrinkle.  With his head spinning from the trip and the sudden stink stinging his nose, it took Newt a moment to regain his footing.  He could see Theseus was already well ahead, strolling leisurely down the lane, completely impervious to both the aftereffects of Apparition and the foul air in the dark side street. He was whistling when Newt caught up with him; it was a happy tune, one Newt recognized to be an Irish folk song their mother often sang. The notes fluttered from Theseus’ lips and into the evening breeze, conflicting with every emotion currently coursing through Newt.  The Magizoologist envied his brother in that moment, wishing to garner a mere fraction of Theseus’ spirit, and maybe finding the vigor to join his brother’s tune.

  
“Where are we going, Theseus?” Newt asked, trying his best not to let his frustration infuse his tone. While he adamantly wanted to have nothing to do with any of his brother's friends, Newt figured he should attempt to make the most of the time they had before the festivities.

  
“Well, I took the liberty of renting a pub— you’ll remember it as the one you first met Lillian in. I also invited my own friends— all of which is traditionally done by the _Best Man._ ” He cheekily elbowed Newt in the ribs before he continued. "But if I left it up to you, my Stag Party may very well have involved only the two of us, a single bottle of firewhiskey, and menagerie of beasts!”  
  
Newt tried not to scowl, still wanting to be civil with his brother. He knew Theseus was only teasing, and perhaps under different circumstances – and a slightly better mood – Newt would have laughed along with him. There was, however, an undeniable truth to what his brother was joking about. Newt had never been to a Stag Party, which made orchestrating one somewhat of a challenge. Anything he attempted to throw would certainly end catastrophically, and probably _would have_ been just he and Theseus with a bottle of firewhiskey. It was for the best that his brother made all the arrangements, and on some level, both were completely fine with that.

  
“You can have all the credit, of course,” Theseus added a moment later, blinking around a smile. “What poor sod wants his mates to know he had to throw his own Stag Party?”

  
_One more crack like that and I’m going to introduce you to my Nundu!_

  
“That’s awfully kind of you…” Newt chided.

  
Theseus’ mood only seemed to swell with greater enthusiasm, and if Newt didn’t know better he would think it all derived from his own irritability. That or Theseus was so excited, he was blind to his little brother’s displeasure. Whatever the reason, he was having too much fun already.

  
Conversation lulled between them as Newt folded in on himself to recharge the bits of him still pumping out phrases uncoated with antipathy. Whenever he found himself worked up he usually settled with a cup of tea in his case and his journal, surrounded by his beasts. That always soothed his mind and brought out the best in him. He’d also found that being around Tina offered him a new and strange sense of serenity, and that he longed for the most. Newt, however, was in a situation where neither of those things were in proximity; both his case and Tina were at Featherbeak. He focused instead on the streets of London, entrusting the usual evening bustle to still his resentment. It was a relatively pleasant evening where the weather was concerned. Motor cars tutted down the cobblestone drives while other night owls went about their business on foot. The buildings were beginning to look familiar to Newt; they were nearing Charing Cross Road. He could even make out the impoverished storefront of The Leaky Cauldron. If he remembered right that meant Theseus’ favorite Muggle watering hole was just around the corner. The older Scamander brother proceeded down the sidewalk, once more whistling delightful Irish refrains, emitting an air of calm vibrancy. He easily thwarted groups of passing people, making sure to utter a charming “good evening,” as he did. Newt trudged on however, slouched in the shadow of Theseus’ joy, finding it almost too complicated a task to abandon his hostility with every note that passed his brother’s lips.

  
The pub was blessedly empty – apart from a few staff members – when Newt and Theseus entered. It was a stark contrast to what it had been the night he’d met his brother’s bride to be. It had been a spectacle of disorderly drunken Muggles that evening; loud and far too concerned in their own business to meddle in theirs.  The expanse of wooden tables sat in perfect order and free of noisy guests, which surely would not be the same by the end of the night. Newt felt an odd sense of sorrow for the innocent pieces of furniture, realizing the notion that one or two of them may very well be a pile of splintered wood when it was all over. He sighed a silent salute to them for their impending sacrifice before hanging his coat on one of the brass hooks by the door.

  
“So,” Newt said placing himself on the barstool next to his brother. “I rented the entire place for the evening, huh?”

  
Theseus had already ordered them both a drink to kick things off (which Newt was glad for) and he nodded. “Mm, yes. You thought it would be best, seeming as how we don’t want our celebrity status to invoke unwelcome guests such as Daily Prophet journalists. Especially on account of how we act after several drinks.”

  
Newt found himself smirking for the first time since the start of their adventure, and he took a slow sip from his glass. “I _am_ the clever one.”

  
Theseus chuckled. “That you are, little brother.”

* 

As Theseus’ friends began to pile into the once peaceful tavern, it was a hard reality to swallow that soon the interior would be rowdier than a stadium full of Quidditch fans.  The amount of them was already alarming; men of all different ages and statures paraded through the door with such bombastic spunk it made Newt glad he didn’t have to deal with them _and_ usual bar patrons.  He’d never met most of them, which he cared little to remedy before the night was through, and guessed that he would spend most of the night avoiding eye contact, seated at a corner table, stewing in his own misery. This was Theseus’ night after all; it was him they were there for, and he hoped beyond hope that he could stay invisible while his brother boozed and schmoozed into the wee hours of the night.

Newt finished his drink and ordered another quickly, if only to help him endure the night that was about to unfold before him. The amber liquid slid down his throat much easier after just one drink, leaving only a slight burn as opposed to the stinging first one. He figured that was good, unsure of just how many glasses it would take until he was at the point of not hating the situation. _More than just two, Scamander._ He told himself with a huff. _It’s going to take more than two…_

Theseus waited to abandon his brother at the bar until a substantial amount of his guests had arrived and flitted off the stool without a passing utterance to Newt before greeting each man with a sociable bray. Newt watched his brother and his convivial hellos, mustering a sigh as he wondered briefly what it might be like to harness such gusto. A small portion of him was jealous for the extroverted behavior, while a much larger part of him was glad for not sharing that specific trait with his brother, finding Theseus’ demeanor tiring.

Space was shrinking by the second as more and more bodies stuffed inside the interior of the quaint pub. They took to the tables, sectioning themselves off with others they knew or felt best suited their individual hubris. Most rallied to Theseus’ himself, following him around the pub like lost sheep, as he ventured from table to table to chat with his mates. It seemed they all knew each other on some level, smiling a greeting one another with firm handshakes or a masculine pat on the back. The stools lining the bar were the last to fill, the ones on either side of Newt staying vacant as if his brother’s friends could sense his hostility. He smirked at the notion: him the predator and them the prey who made a point of avoiding him. The empty seats next to him were welcomed, far better than strangers filling them.

The barkeeps looked to have their work cut out for them. Pints and shots and all sorts of alcoholic beverages were being poured at such a quantity Newt feared Theseus’s horde would drink them dry. It was unlikely, but many of his brother’s buddies were soldiers, and Newt knew first hand just how much they could put away on their own. The bartender powered through each order with an elegance derived from many years of seeing to customers, and every glass slid across the counter mere seconds after it was ordered.

Newt fiddled with his pocket watch, and sneered, realizing only a half hour had passed. The night was in it’s infancy and everyone was already loud and had a drink in their hand. He figured most – if not all – of the invitees had arrived, if going only by the number of men in the pub was any clue.  There was not an empty table in the room, just the two empty stools next to him. It mattered none to Newt whether or not every one of his brother’s mates were there or not, he knew that, as Theseus’ best man, he had the obligation to toast the groom, and he was going to do it while everyone was still coherent. His reasoning was somewhat petty he knew, but sensible. At the very least his brother’s band of friends would know that his younger brother was there and in full support of the wedding.  Newt muttered something to the bartender, who proceeded to pour him a drink more appropriate for a toast than the pint he’d been nursing, and he balanced himself carefully on the metal rungs on the bar stool. Thankfully his new height was enough to draw everyone’s attention.

“Before things get under way…” _Before we’re all too drunk to remember this…_ “let’s raise a glass to my brother, Theseus, and his bride, Lillian. May they - erm- be happy, and--” The stool wobbled slightly as he fished for what words to say. He managed to stay upright, catching the back of the barstool for support. “... and may word of what happens tonight never reach her ears…”

“TO THESEUS!” Someone yelled from the crowd, hoisting his drink high overhead.

A chorus of laughs, cheers, and praise resonated around the pub in joyous tones that actually managed to bring a smile to Newt’s face. He tossed back the drink in his hand in toast and admiration to his brother before slouching clumsily back into the barstool.


	2. Point of No Return

Time had ventured well past when Newt gave his speech and he found himself unsure of what round he was on; enough for him to guess it was time to stop. On some degree his mood had shifted to one more pliant of his current situation – dare he enjoy himself – but by and large he would’ve much rather been back at the estate with Tina. The alcohol had impaired him to the point where Theseus’ friends odd blunders amused him. They were tripping and making horrible jokes that brought a smile to Newt’s face that his sober mind would have paid no mind to. More specifically, it was an arm wrestling duel taking place at a nearby table that had his interest. A crowd had gathered to watch the mediocre spectacle with far more elation than anyone should have for such a display. Yet Newt found he was just as riveted, and snickered almost fiendishly when the larger man lost.  

“No more grog for you, aye?” Theseus plopped down onto one of the empty barstools next to his brother. He already bore the bitter cologne of alcohol, and his mouth seemed frozen into a perpetual moronic smile.

Newt nodded, which caused the room to spin slightly. “Yes. I’ve reached a good stopping point. I no longer hate that I’m here.”

The ridiculous smirk on Theseus’ face slipped ever so slightly into a frown as he leaned uncomfortably close to his brother. The smell of his breath so near was ripe and Newt stanched his own breath while Theseus spoke.  “Aw come on, Newt! I refuse to let you leave my Stag party until you are properly pissed!”

Pounding his fist on the bar, he demanded another round of drinks. Newt wanted to argue, to push the glass of amber fluid away and remain in a reasonably sober state of mind. _At this rate I will be in no shape to say goodnight to Tina._ He was a man possessed. Against his better judgment; he clanked the crystal drinkware to the one in his brother’s hand eagerly, throwing it back with implausible ease.

“I was afraid you would say that.” Newt shook his head trying to quell the smirk on his lips. Theseus only chuckled, looking remarkably pleased with himself.

The brothers upheld their seats by the bar with little effort as they put down a few more drinks; each time the words “just one more” slurred from Newt’s mouth. He had lost count of how many “one more’s” he’d talked himself into; more than a few, and probably more than several. Theseus had a gift for ordering drinks in a wordless glance to the bartender, and took pride in the multitude of every beer, scotch, and brandy he called for. It was a buffet of delights and Newt helped himself to everything without restraint. Some of the spirits never reached their mouths, instead landing on the floor in a pile of sharp glass. Newt and Theseus mourned each of them like casualties of war. However, it was never long before their fallen comrades were replaced with a poison of the same concoction. Theseus made sure of that.

Newt laughed loudly, genuine and bordering on obnoxiously at a joke his sober mind would never have given the same reaction to. A snort even rumbled from his throat, which made his and his brother chortle all the more ridiculously. The alcohol in his system extinguished every ounce of his frustration, igniting the small flame of rampant sociability in the process. He lunged forward, all smiles, and smacked his brother on the back more forcibly than he’d meant to.

“I am truly happy for - um - you and Lill-Lillian, Theseus.” Newt’s expression had gone serious, goofy smile gone as truth only alcohol could bring spilled from his mouth and out into the open. _“I love you mate._ I don’t ever say it, an’ I should…”

Suddenly the air was thick and silent, each of them digesting the words that had been uttered between them. The severity faltered with a slow smile, cracking Newt’s composure, and a fit of laughter dissipated the density in the air.  While his brother continued to chuckle, Newt sloppily situated himself back onto the barstool, yanking off his bowtie and, mumbling something about it trying to choke him. Theseus snickered louder watching his brother fight the silk neckpiece, almost spilling his pint in the process.

“I have a question for you, Newton,” he sang, when his younger brother had successfully defeated the bowtie. Newt eyed the coiled piece of fabric as if it were an enemy hell-bent on destroying him, before swiftly moving his attention to Theseus.  

“An’ what would that be, brother dear?”

His older brother seemed to always carry a perpetual simper on his face, but the neutral expression had morphed into one gushing with mischief and a sauciness that creased his grey eyes.  Such a display usually filled Newt with suspicion, but presently the Magizoologist couldn’t tell the difference.

“Did you invite Miss Goldstein along solely as a companion, or out of the prospect that you might get to dip your wick?” Theseus formed his question around a sip of his drink and accented it with a hoisted brow.

The mention of the American Auror caused Newt to grow exceptionally quiet, and the dark of his eyes dilated.  If Theseus was hoping for a rise out of his little brother, he sure did not get one. Instead, Newt’s blithe features rearranged themselves into a serious expression and his focus never stirred away from his half empty glass. Color rose to his face as he thought about what his brother had said – what he’d insinuated with that salacious comment - but Newt couldn’t form cohesive words to answer the inquiry. A tingle buzzed through him, his mind filling with musings of _that_ lewd act, and his cheeks grew redder.

“Thes, um…” Newt’s eyes finally parted from the glass of beer and met his brother’s, smoldering dark and earnest, with a bemused subtlety. He leaned forward and his voice was barely a few octaves above a whisper. As he scratched the back of his head anxiously, it was clear to both of them that the words he wanted to say eluded him.

“What - er - what does it mean when Tina walks into a room and I suddenly can’t breathe?” His confusion became even more apparent when his brows creased his forehead. “Or when my heart feels entirely too big in my chest and it’s as though it’s gonna burst…” Newt pounded his chest repeatedly to add emphasis. “...Out of my body every time she looks at me--”

“What’s he on about!?” One of Theseus’ mates interjected as he approached.

The man held in his grasp an empty glass (which he still seemed to think contained sustenance judging by the number of times he’d tried to drink from it) and looked well past his limit. There were crumbs in his beard from whatever snack he’d been noshing on, and the sleeve of his shirt was stained in several places, though he didn’t seem to mind. The smile on his face was indisputably even more manic than the one Theseus had on his face after drinking.

Newt leered with piercing green eyes at the man who’d rudely interrupted his string of questions.

“Chester!” Theseus exclaimed, stumbling through a handshake with the man. “Newt was just tellin’ me about the American Auror he fancies.”

The man named Chester flashed Newt a smirk seething with skepticism. “Scamander the younger fancies himself an Auror, aye?”

Theseus and his friend shared a laugh, while Newt maintained his heavy glower. A seething irritation for Chester was brewing inside him, rooted wholly from the man’s impolite blunder. The questions he’d been asking where not idle inquires to pass the time. Newt (with the help of a drink or two) had worked up the courage to ask what all that meant, only to have Chester ruin it for him.

“I more than _fancy_ her!” He stressed when their joking subsided. Newt’s sneer faded as he thought about Tina, and the agitation in his features dwindled into a serious thoughtfulness. “I mean have you seen her eyebrows? …Of course _you_ haven’t…” he waved a dismissive rude gesture to Chester, speaking only to Theseus. “But you! They are the pinnacle of eyebrows… the way they curve so flawlessly over her eyes. . . and her eyes! _Oh, Merlin help me, her eyes!”_

Newt slumped against the back of his barstool, his expression whimsical and far away from the pub. His thoughts were occupied with the image of her dark smoldering eyes. Theseus snickered to himself as he took in the sight of his brother, shaking his head with mock criticism.

“Well, it sounds to me like you finally found yourself a lass to bend over a bench, aye Newt?” Chester bellowed with laughter, smacking the Magizoologist playfully on the back, which only succeeded to enhance Newt’s annoyance with the man.

“ _No, you knobheaded pillock._ ” Newt staggered to his feet, giving a single, forceful shove to Theseus’ friend. “I would worship every inch of her, every swell and dip of her body. I would give myself to her, irrevocably, and hold her through every second as she unraveled before me.”

Neither his brother nor his friend uttered so much as a sound for a long while, aghast and struck to the bone with awe at the descriptive honesty. Newt on the other hand situated himself back onto his seat, ordered another round, and ran a hand through the tangled halo of coarse hair on his head looking smug.

_“Well, fuck,”_ Theseus finally sighed with a smile. “I’ll drink to that!” He downed a hefty gulp before pushing his friend back into the masses, muttering a chummy “bugger off.”

Newt still held an air of shameless fervor when Theseus chanced a grin his way, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You really are in love, aren’t you, old man? …Stranger things have happened I suppose…” he shrugged and lovingly gave Newt’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m happy for you, little brother.”

 

*

 

It was with Theseus’ apparent inability to let his brother end the night with a shred of  dignity that Newt found he’d ventured well past the point of no return (though honestly he didn’t need much persuading). Every hope the Magizoologist had of speaking with Tina coherently once he’d returned to the estate had flown out the window, along with his inhibitions. The ever-shrinking sober part of him knew eventually he was going to regret every drink that went down his gullet. No longer did each sip leave an annoying burn behind; he’d simply grown numb to it; which if he cared to give any thought, was most likely a bad thing. Nonetheless, he found that his copious intake had pushed him away from his security net at the bar, leaving him to parade and shove his way through the crowd with a smile on his face, despite all the chaos. Newt had thrown caution to the wind, Theseus’ rowdy friends were no longer a bother to him; in fact, the louder they were the more encouragement he harnessed. It didn’t even so much as cause him to blink when they called him by his old nickname _Salamander_. One or two drinks ago, Newt would have gladly told them off in a belligerent spray of ill-mannered phrases. He was in his own world; or rather, he was until an alien force yanked him into a horde of bodies. The suddenness of it all made him yelp, and the boots on his feet proved cumbersome as he stumbled and collided with his brother who had grabbed him.

Theseus chuckled at his brother’s tumble and tried his best to help him stand again. “NEWT!” he exclaimed almost urgently. “You- you remember my mate, Garfield, from school, yeah?”

The younger man spun with a wobble to investigate who his brother was talking about, his green eyes going wide with a smile. “Merlin, it’s been years!” Newt staggered forward, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder. “Ya know, I got expelled before I got the chance to tell you how much I _fuckin’_ love you, mate.” He cast his other arm around Garfield, pulling him into a far tighter hug than was necessary. Newt didn’t pull away, he kept the man in his tight grasp, swaying slightly in the middle of the pub.

“It’s -um- good to see you, Newt,” Garfield said somewhat warily. “I don’t remember your brother being so…. _personable_.” He looked to Theseus as he spoke.

The older brother snorted and tugged Newt away from the man, who looked immensely grateful. “He’s usually a pretentious, reclusive bastard - isn’t he!?”

Newt feigned a scowl in Theseus’ direction. “An’ you’re usually a pain in the arse, pompous git.”

The entire group broke out in chuckles as if name-calling was somehow the funniest joke they’d heard all night. Garfield had the face of a man who had not yet indulged deeply in all the pub had to offer. He laughed along with the others, but not overly so. That small sober part of Newt envied the man for his sobriety.  

“Hey!” Another of Theseus’ friends shouted from the seemingly endless sea of faces. “Ain’t you the bloke with all those beasts?”

The unexpected call of his name tore the chuckle from Newts lips, and he froze where he stood. Slowly, he craned his head from side to side - all around him- searching for something before a frown settled deep into his features. “Not at present it seems…” He continued looking for his creatures, turning out his pockets and glancing down his waistcoat, only to come up empty handed. “My Pickett isn’t even with me…”

Newt’s fruitless effort dug his frown deeper onto his face and a flurry of sadness settled within him. The sober part of him knew that Pickett and all his other creatures were safe and sound back at the estate, but he was far from sober and suddenly missed them terribly. They’d always been great company on his adventures, and having them so far away felt dreadful. His posture wilted, and for the first time since he’d started drinking, he wanted to go home.

Newt’s grievous state didn’t last though, the blithe demeanor flooding back into him when his brother threw a heavy arm around him. “I believe what he meant was, can you tell them about your beasts?” Theseus’ words slurred together making them practically intelligible. All at once, a new and frenzied vibrancy coursed through the Magizoologist, making the green in his eyes glow bright with excitement at the chance to educate his brother’s friends.

It was arguably a regrettable happenstance, asking Newt Scamander about his beloved creatures while being in the state he was. Nine times out of ten, when questioned about his beasts, Newt made sure to speak with easy terms and a gentle tone, all while calmly urging them to take care in the presence of a creature to insure no harm comes to the animal or the person. _Intoxicated_ Newt Scamander was far less cordial; it was as if someone had lit a fire beneath him. Every word that tumbled from his mouth sounded more like made up gibberish than any actual scientific jargon; the speed alone at which he uttered them was impressive, as well as confusing. By the time he reached the section of his lecture where he usually cautioned people, Newt sounded more like he was threatening anyone who would dare bring any magical beast any harm. The whole thing was a dizzying presentation, one that Newt felt exceedingly proud of, even if only a few of Theseus’ horde managed to keep up.   

 

*

 

“Nono...NO!” Newt shook his head wildly, causing the curls on his head to flail about with the same dramatic fervor at which he scolded the man he was talking to. “You have to stamp yer foot down like you mean it!”  He demonstrated with avid flair, slamming his boot down with such force a sober man would have cried out. “How else is she supposed to know ya want to mate with her?” Newt slid his foot backward, haphazardly, then shamelessly turned to show off his backside, all while making obscene snorting noises.

Several others stood by, including Theseus, watching the Magizoologist go about teaching the proper way to seduce a magical beast. The absurd performance continued with a series of grunts, lunges, and rolls, and everyone watching cheered Newt on gleefully. A small handful of men played along, doing their best to mimic the odd steps. Some were laughing obnoxiously, somehow seeming to know just how ridiculous they must look, but carried on boisterously, while others followed each stride through with the genuine desire to do their best.  The room had become a circus of grown men cheering and stamping about while making barbaric animalistic noises; all with a devil-may-care attitude.

“Bloody good!” Newt exclaimed to one of the men giving it his all. There was a delightful smirk on his freckled face observing all his pupils. He stood up with an air of profound pride and wandered through his sea of students, issuing them all some jaunty encouragement. 

“Say, Newt?” Garfield asked with a raised brow. Their old mate from school stood next to Theseus as one of the many spectators. “What sort of creature would you normally do this um… dance for?”

“Erumpent,” Newt told him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

In a swift movement, he seized his brother’s drink, stole a sip, and handed it back. “Now if you’ll ‘scues me, I need to use the loo.”

 

Throughout his life Newt had conquered many struggles. He’d toughed it through almost six years of wizarding school, which, in his youth, seemed like nothing more than a steady and torturous whirlwind of test after test, exam after exam -  that was just the schooling. He’d braved the bullies, the name calling, and the isolation - all with a grain of salt - until his untimely exit. After that, it was the war; which brought on injuries and nightmares; a depressing cloud of fog that followed him for years even after the fighting had stopped. After the smoke cleared he’d been given the chance to travel around the world, and that too brought on a new and exciting wave of strife. Learning how to calm savage beasts without physical harm was arguably the trickiest, or catching the ones that managed to get the jump on him and escape.  Newt Scamander was a learned, battle-hardened scientist; but at the present, what should have been an easiest of any task to date, proved far more difficult to do at  his level of impairment. He was not a vain man, caring little of what others thought of him, but the simple task of undoing the fastenings of his trousers took him longer than even he would care to admit. A string of profanities fumbled out of his mouth as he valiantly fought the buttons until he managed to work them loose just in time.  His aim was mediocre at best – nowhere near as precise as he perceived it to be, but Newt managed to keep _himself_ clean.

As he made his way out of the cramped lavatory he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, prompting a chuckle and a loud belch to rumble past his lips. The disheveled man gawking amusingly back at him seemed a stranger to his eyes, a vagrant in wrinkled clothes. Newt’s hair was a ginger mess of wild waves - standing up more on the right side of his head than the other, while some tendrils spilled over his eyes creating a web of auburn tangles. His white shirt had pulled free from his waistband and fell oddly from under his waistcoat. The suitcoat, as well as his bowtie, were missing and, for the life of him, he hadn’t the foggiest idea as to where or when that had happened. Newt shrugged at his disorderly reflection and stumbled back out into the party without so much as to trying to tuck his shirt in.

The sudden and overwhelming stench of alcohol was almost enough to knock him over when he was free of the toilet, and all at once his stomach began to _slosh_ with every step. It was a curious sensation, one that was not in the least bit pleasant.  He felt hot, and without really meaning to, Newt shucked off his waistcoat, tossing it onto an empty table in the hope that one less layer would cool him down. The heat only inflamed him more. His insides churned and swished as he ambled on wobbling feet. Each step caused the feeling to manifest with a stronger intensity that didn’t promise to cease its ache any time soon. As it worsened, he cut a path through the crowd of bodies, eyeing the side entry of the pub. Shedding the waistcoat hadn’t made the sickly warm feeling any better, and he naively hoped the cool spring air would make it all stop.

The crisp night air stung his sweat covered face, which made him feel better briefly and he smiled, only to grimace immediately after. His stomach rolled again, this time forcing a groan out into the open. There was a dull ache in his head, he realized, that made his mystery ailment more miserable. Clutching his gut, he took measured steps slowly down the narrow alley as a foul taste crept into his mouth. Before he knew what hit him, Newt’s last few drinks came back up violently. With whatever luck he still had left he managed to support himself on the side of the building, continuing to wretch.

Even with his garbled mind, Newt realized what a pathetic sight he must have been. He certainly felt that way – no better than a vagabond who spent his life in shadowed alleyways, drinking himself to ruin.  Not that it mattered to him really - there was no one around to witness his misfortune for the hapless display it was. He was glad for that. The dizziness was the core of the entire issue and it remained the longest, even after the heaving subsided. Newt stuck close to the wall, leaning his back end against the stone, slouched over, hands on his knees, propping most of his weight against his the wobbly joints.

Once his head ceased its spinning and his stomach no longer threatened to empty itself, Newt felt like a new man – a phoenix born from the ashes. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and did his best to ignore the new - horrible - taste sticking to his tongue.

“I think this calls for another round, aye, Scamander?” He nodded a reply to himself, staggering back down to where he had exited the pub. It was a short walk, one that was far easier now that his gut didn’t slosh sickly with every step.

There was a newfound pep in his woozy pace, and there was a content smile on his face despite the unfortunate circumstance that brought him out of the pub to begin with. The alley was dismal at best, but the Magizoologist’s sozzled mind was curious of every pebble and mismatched brick. There was a miniscule amount of light seeping into the backstreet, only a few slivers of yellow from the lamps on the road. It offered little means to effectively light the narrow passage, but the lamps granted just the right amount of illumination to cast a golden shine over the names etched onto the brick wall. A sober man would have paid them no mind, but not Newt.

“Oh…?” Intrigue got the better of him and coaxed him closer so he could read the list of names. An idea (which in that moment seemed dire) struck Newt suddenly, and he fished deep in his pockets to find something to scribe his own name onto the wall. There was an impossible amount of bric-a-brac in his magically extended pockets, and he was certain he could find something to aid in his new quest. Finally, with a cheeky grin, he brandished a piece of artist’s charcoal and staggered even closer to the wall. The lack of adequate light in the vacant side street was irksome, and he found himself squinting to see better once he began to write.

“Newt--on…” his tongue pushed out the side of his mouth like a dog’s. “...Artemis… why is my name so bloody long?….Fi- _hic_ \- Fido...Scamand- _damnit_!” Losing what little balance he had, Newt dropped his piece of charcoal while nearly hitting his face on the side of the building. An irritated groan huffed out of him as he stepped a few paces backward, searching the cobblestone for what he’d dropped.

_“Fuck me…”_ he sighed, pulling at his hair in frustration. A pout curled his wide lips and he eyed the ground, casting it a glower of both longing and hatred. The sliver of charcoal was perfectly camouflaged with the dark stone under Newt’s feet; one would sooner find a needle in a haystack before the piece of drawing carbon. That belief didn’t deter his determination, however.

“Newt! My brother! There you are!” Theseus’ voice roared through the air, echoing off the narrow walls. He was hanging out the door of the pub a couple feet away, with an idiotic smile plastered on his face. “My mates are just-- _whoa_ ” he stumbled out into the alley. “Just ‘bout to crack open a 1916 Malt! Come...come and have some!” Theseus waved dramatically with the whole of his arm in a drunken attempt to get Newt to follow him.

The Magizoologist, though, remained unyielding in his search for the missing charcoal. He was too committed to finishing his name on the wall, which he couldn’t do until he regained the lost item, even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees to do so. His brother’s shenanigans were going to have to wait.

“Une minute s'il vous plaît…” Newt motioned dully for Theseus to go on without him. “Je serai là bientôt.”

His older brother dawdled just behind him as though his feet were stuck in the mud, confusion spreading over his face like wildfire. “Aw, don’ speak French when I’m this off me pickle..” He whined. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re saying!”

Newt cast his brother a glower, irritation heavy on his brow - and spoke again. “Ulah ngagorowok di kuring kuring teu bisa manggihan areng kuring!”    

Even in the shadow of the alley it was easy to see Theseus’ eyes grow wide, and his obvious confusion made Newt snicker. “What the _bloody hell was that?”_

“Sudanese,” Newt scoffed in a self-satisfied bravado.

Theseus frowned, his whole body losing its spunk. “Sudanese…?”

“Mmhm,” Newt nodded, still crawling on the ground, his crooked smirk adorning his freckled cheeks. “You said not to speak French…”

There was a moment where Newt could almost feel his brother’s leer on him. His brother may have graduated Hogwarts with honors and returned from war a decorated soldier, but he was not the linguist Newt was – which was at least one thing he had over his influential brother. “I don’t speak Sudanese!” Theseus threw his hands up into the air.

“Well maybe you should learn…” the younger man prompted haughtily.

Theseus shook his head, his usual well-kept hair tossing about as he threw a tantrum. “I don’t want to learn! I want to go back to my party before they drink all the good stuff!”

Newt ignored his brother’s childishness and focused all his attention back to finding what he’d lost. He stalked on the damp ground like a lion hunting its prey; eyes wide and honed on the surroundings ready to strike at the precise moment.

“Ah HA!” He bounced back onto his feet with enough grace to keep himself from falling and cracking his head on the ground. “I found the little bastard!”

Theseus looked confused again, slouched shoulders - wilted from his tantrum - as he watched his little brother start scribbling on the wall with whatever it was he’d found.

“Tina...Easter- op, I’ve done cocked that up….” Newt smeared the misspelled name with the sleeve of his shirt, leaving both a large smudge on the wall and the brick.  “... _Esther_ …” he grinned when he’d spelled it right the second time and continued with the rest of her name.

“Voila!” Newt took a few fumbling steps back to stand with his brother, who still had a frown on his face. “Now we can go back - _hic_ \- back inside.” He began the trek to the entryway exuding an air of pride at the work he’d accomplished after struggling to find the tiny piece of charcoal. Theseus, however, didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, the sulkiness dissolving into something softer as he squinted to read the names on the wall. When he cocked his head to one side with an eyebrow hooked high on his forehead, Newt ventured back to investigate what was enough to hinder Theseus’ outburst.

“I thought her last name was Goldstein…” There was a grin starting to take the place of his frown.

Newt’s brow furrowed and he nodded. “That’s what I put...Tina Esther Goldstein.”

“Scamander….” Theseus corrected with a sideways grin and a saucy twinkle in his eye.

“What?” Newt glanced back at his work. His heart skipped in his chest at the mere thought, and his eyes grew wide when he found it to be true.  

“Tina Esther _Scamander_ … that’s what you wrote.”

The alley grew silent as the two of them stood reading the sloppy handwriting. It was of little consequence, a steady rain would wash the name away in time, but still Newt couldn’t quell the fissure of horror and satisfaction at seeing her name along with his. The two names flowed so seamlessly, and every time his green eyes drifted over the scribbled words a wave of heat washed over him. It was a far more welcomed hot sensation, one that radiated heavily from his chest and brought a smile to his face.

“You’re worse than a bleedin’ school girl!” Theseus chuckled, taking a chance look at his younger brother. Before Newt could protest, his brother pulled him by the waistband of his trousers and yanked him back inside the pub, still laughing. “C’mon Casanova.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, that's the bulk of the shenanigans but there's even more to come in the next part; singing specifically. I did my best to keep drunk!Newt in character and believable, so hopefully I achieved that. Part 3 will be up on Friday the 7th!


	3. Some Night

Theseus had been right to assume the 12 year old Malt would not last long, the same for the 1896 brandy one of his mates gifted to him on behalf of his nuptials. Both bottles were emptied with little regard to their unique vintage, saving not a drop to be enjoyed later. Newt’s episode in the alley left him feeling rejuvenated, and he had no quarrel in helping finish of both the malt and the brandy. He tossed more back with the seasoned expertise of any drunkard. Everyone in the bar was mucking around in jubilant drunken stupors, giving no care to the lateness of the hour. There wasn’t a single sober man left to stop all the fun.

“God save our gracious Queen!” Newt sang loudly to himself where he sat at the bar. The words were a noisy slur, but surprisingly in key. He’d been told on rare occasion that he was more than simply a good singer, the term gifted had even been used one time or another. A short stent in the Hogwarts choir had helped train him, but he didn’t much care for preforming in front of others; no matter how _gifted_ others thought he was. Mostly he sang to his creatures- the young ones who needed lulling to sleep -  something he did in private. Yet Newt continued his song, if only for his own amusement.

“Long live our noble Queen! God save - _belch -_ ‘scuse me… the Queen!!” He finished with exuberant flair, holding the last note until all the air was pushed from his lungs. He preened his muss of hair out of his face with confidence as a smug little smirk creased his eyes. 

Applause broke out from the people standing closest to him, acting as though they had just witnessed the most riveting performance in their life.  The sudden praise startled Newt, causing him to jump in his seat, and he greeted his audience with a brassy smile when he otherwise would have gone red-faced. He even fumbled through a bow, once more balancing the arches of his feet on the stool rungs.

“Jolly good!” Theseus pounded him on the back. “I know another song!” He stalled for only a moment, as if he was trying to think of the words, until finally he began in more of a shout than a tune.

“Hogwarts! Hogwarts! Hoggy warty Hogwarts! Teach us some - _hic_ \- something please!”

The whole of the pub roared in excitement to such a degree that Newt could have sworn he felt a tremor rock the building's foundation. Every man broke out into song, belting out the tune in a variety of clashing tempos, rhythms, and even durations that it was almost dizzying to understand. It sounded far less like singing and more akin to incoherent chanting.  Even so, every wizard sang praise to the school in a drunken swirl of slurred words with enough passion and pride it would have made the professors weep.

One song bled into the next, with an encore rendition of _God Save the Queen_ which Newt lead, sounding more in tune than the lot of them. He swayed in place where he sat, smile firm on his face until Theseus yanked him up by his collar, dragging him onto the bar. He handed his younger sibling a mug of dark beer and slung his arm over his shoulder. They were both chuckling and belching as they sang from their newfound stage, serenading the guests below with a mixture of Irish folk songs their mother had taught them.

“So fill to me the parting glass… good night and - _belch_ \- joy be with you all!” They swayed back and forth as they sang together - relying solely on the other to stay upright.

The brothers were very different from the put together people they’d been at the beginning of the night. Theseus’ shirtsleeve was ripped at the shoulder and already starting to fray, his necktie crowned his head like some sort of makeshift hair ribbon, leaving a sort of tail down the back of his head. Like Newt, his waistcoat was gone - lost in the sea of people below them. Newt was even worse for wear. Somehow, he’d managed to lose more than just his waistcoat. His bowtie was gone, as well as his left boot. His braces had fallen free of his shoulders and dangled dangerously around his long legs. His auburn locks stood practically on end, resembling the feathers of tropical South American birds.  None of it was a care to them, the Scamander brothers stood tall and proud as they continued to sing an Irish farewell as their guests started to make their leave.

A strange surge of grief coursed through Newt while he was still singing, watching his brothers friends stumble out the door. The night was drawing to a close and morning was fast approaching. After all his misgivings, Newt had actually enjoyed the Stag Party. There would be more celebrating on the morrow, but to a completely different degree. He only hoped that he could somehow find a way to enjoy that sort of party, too.

Their father soon showed up just as the final handful of guests left the pub, making everything suddenly quiet. There was little damage to the interior, just some broken mugs and toppled over chairs - less casualties than Newt had initially figured. He smiled at that, content knowing most - if not all - of the chairs had survived.

Theseus nudged his brother, pointing to their father who was taking the liberty of gathering their strewn garments. “The warden's come to collect us,” he whispered, making Newt laugh. They were sitting with their feet dangling over the wooden bar following their father's fluid movements. He ambled with a proud posture and his smart dress clashed with the quaint and altogether ho-hum decor of the pub.

“You boys made the most of it, I see.” Thaddeus said in a tone that was neither surprised nor upset. “You are your mother’s sons…”

There was a soft smile hidden under his seemingly indifferent features as he handed a stack of clothing to his oldest son first.

Theseus hopped from his perch with no argument, and managed to redress himself without any fuss. Newt, however, glared at the pile his father gave him and frowned. “It’s too hot for all this…” he mumbled  to his brother as he slid from the counter.

“No, it is not,” Thaddeus chided smoothly, moving to aid his youngest son with his clothes. He tugged the braces back into place on Newt’s shoulders, and gently forced his arms into his waistcoat.

“No! I’m wearing too many layers already!” He disputed, fighting with the buttons on his trousers. “It’s hot in here, and I - _damnit_ \- can’t get these off!”

Theseus was too busy laughing at this brother to be of any assistance, though he was trying his best to get the boot back on Newt’s foot.

“Newton Scamander, you will NOT take your trousers off in this establishment, no matter how hot you believe it to be in here.” Thaddeus held his son’s arms firmly to his side, raising his voice only enough to get his point across.

The Magizoologist tilted his chin in challenge, eyeing his father harshly before ultimately slouching in defeat with a heavy sigh. “Tina has strong hands…” he pouted. “She would’ve helped me with my buttons.”

“Oh I’m sure she would have!” Theseus cackled.

Newt slowly worked himself back into his garments without their assistance, muttering under his breath how unnecessary it was to wear so many layers.  His bow tie was crooked, left boot unlaced, and the buttons on his waistcoat were off by one - but it was much better than the alternative. Theseus handed him his blue overcoat; Newt glared at it first, but shrugged into it anyway.

Before they left, Thaddeus apologized and thanked the bar keep, tossing a considerable sum of Muggle money onto the bar “for their trouble,” and issuing them a full smile (something Newt was not used to seeing). Without a word, he ushered his sons out into the quiet air. There was a crispness in the breeze that wafted down the darkened London streets, and Newt was secretly glad for the added layers - though he wasn’t about to tell them that. He started down the empty street towards home (at least he thought so) until Theseus tugged on his coat sleeve in the opposite direction. Just as he was about to question why, Thaddeus and his sons Disapparated back to Featherbeak.

 

*

 

The estate was dark and peaceful from the outside draped in its nocturnal veil of slumber. It stood proud and great in the English countryside, while the same could not be said about Newt and Theseus. The moment their feet hit solid ground again, both of them felt a familiar and altogether unpleasant churning in their guts. All the color had gone from their faces and without a second thought, they ran together to a bush.

Thaddeus watched in contained horror as his boys got sick, sighing in a sorrowful tone. “Apparition was probably not the best method of bringing you home…” he admitted. “Sorry.”

All they could do was groan when it was all over, the sudden weight of their activities crashing onto them. Newt was tired, his whole body felt as though lead had been pumped into his veins as he struggled to keep up with his father and brother. There was a ringing in his ears in the dead silence of the old home, and his head was starting to hurt again.

Their father extended the courtesy of asking if they would need his assistance before he retired for the night. When they shook their heads and waved him on, Thaddeus bid them goodnight and disappeared upstairs.

“Some night…” Theseus mumbled with a weak smile.

Newt laughed a feeble chortle and nodded. “Yeah, some night.”

The grand staircase seemed more like a mountain when they finally worked up the nerve to ascend it; Newt holding firm to one railing, Theseus on the other. It was a slow, arduous process and midway up Newt considered letting go and crawling to the sofa in the parlor to sleep. Little by little they stuck to it, and soon were standing at the top.

“I want to kill the prick who invented stairs,” Theseus grumbled between heavy breaths.

Newt was too tired and out of breath to utter a response, but mustered up a weak smile in place of words.

The dark hallway was less intimidating, but looked to them as though it stretched on forever. The floor was flat at least, which proved to be less of a chore to conquer than the stairs. Newt helped his brother down the corridor, stopping only to say good night when they reached his bedroom, and Theseus went on without him.

Newt lingered in the dark hall as his eyes drifted to his door, and the one he knew Tina was behind. _She’s asleep and you are in no shape to hold any form of meaningful conversation._  He frowned at himself, determination getting the better of him. Quietly he poked his head into her room, finding her blissfully asleep on the far side of the bed. It was a strangely sobering sight to behold; Tina sleeping peacefully in the cascading slivers of light from the widow. Every piece of him wanted to crawl into bed next to her and hold her against him as she slept, but this time his better judgment won out.

“Goodnight, my Tina,” he whispered as he took one last look of her, in hopes she would be the highlight of his dreams. Newt closed her door and stumbled across the hall before - at last - passing out on his own bed.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! I know this was kind of short, but as I said, the bulk of the fun happened in chapter 2. I do hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. I won't have anything new to post for a couple weeks, what I'm currently working on isn't actually part of this series, but it is Newtina oriented. Just keep checking my tumblr for my progress on what I'm working on. Stop and chat or discuss idea's or headcannons. :D

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Tumblr [@fandom-non-sense](https://fandom-non-sense.tumblr.com/)  
> I post the progress of my current works there. 
> 
> Also HUGE thank you and shout out to my beta [@onebethatatime](https://onebethatatime.tumblr.com/).Thanks once again to [@katiehavok](https://katiehavok.tumblr.com/) who gave me lots of fun ideas about this. They are wonderful and I owe them both so much for making these chapters readable. Also, shout out to anyone on tumblr that also fed me ideas for this. I hope I've done them justice!


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